


if someone asks, this is where i'll be

by douxamer



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 11:52:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13030485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/douxamer/pseuds/douxamer
Summary: When the hell, Richie thinks, did my main goal in life become convincing Bill Denbrough to look after himself?





	if someone asks, this is where i'll be

**Author's Note:**

> Bill and Richie's parents in this fic are loosely based on how they're described in the book. 
> 
> Title from [This Must Be The Place](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pVrVY540xdc) by Talking Heads

The summer after It disappears, Derry goes thirty-four days without rain.

When it finally starts, in late August, it feels unstoppable. It feels like a fucking sending from Zeus. It feels like the world has only ever been wet, like the air was always shimmering like this. Water rattles along roof gutters and floods the streets. All the cats, Myrtle included, are constantly damp and mewling; all the lawns go brown and soggy like wet cereal.

Last winter, for unknown reasons, Bill started jogging. All of the Losers gave him shit for it, but unfortunately that didn't stop him. Every Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday, if Richie is by a front window, he will see Bill splashing down the street without a raincoat on. Just a soaked t-shirt and his dumb blue short shorts.

Mom always tuts when she sees him: ‘What are his parents up to, letting him out like that?’

Richie has a lot to say about what Bill Denbrough’s piss-poor excuses for parents are up to. But then again, Richie has a lot to say about everything.

Bill, meanwhile, has never had the gift of the gab. Ever since It fucked off, Bill’s had less and less to say, like he was only given a small allocation of sentences at birth and now he’s running out of them.

He used to stop by the Toziers’ place on Sundays sometimes, but he doesn’t these days.

Sunday hang-outs with Bill are a tradition that stretches back to when they were little. Once, the two of ‘em were the closest of the Losers’ Club. The one who never shut up and the one who barely spoke. They’d spend hours playing wounded soldiers starving in the desert, or astronauts stranded on Mars and being hunted by aliens, or whatever fucked-up imaginary game they were into at the time.

Sometimes Richie wonders if Bill’s avoiding him because of the fight they had. You know, when Bill punched Richie for screaming in his face that his little brother was dead. It’s all, like, water down the sewers for Richie – they’d just confronted a demonic, terror-hungry being, they were all a little tense. But maybe Bill's still cut up about it.

‘Bill doesn’t hold grudges, you know that,’ Eddie said when Richie brought it up. ‘Even if he would, I’m pretty sure he got over it when you saved his life.’

Or maybe Bill’s still horny for Beverly Marsh. She moved away end of last summer – Ben and Bill were the only ones who stayed in touch with her. But that explanation doesn’t really fit either. Being horny doesn't stop a person having friends, else Richie would be up shit creek without a paddle.

The most annoying thing is that Bill’s running route still goes straight past Richie’s house. Come Sunday, Richie’ll be playing Nintendo, or feeding Myrtle spaghetti, or trying to boil his G.I. Joe on the stove as a science experiment.

And he’ll look out the window and see Bill jogging past. Not even glancing Richie’s way. Valiantly struggling against furiously billowing sheets of rain, looking like they’re trying to tangle around Bill and tug him down the rain gutters.

Although that’s probably just Richie’s bitch of an over-active imagination.

‘Hey, Bill,’ Richie asks him once the teacher’s out of the room in Math period, throwing an eraser at his ear. ‘How come you don’t come over on Sundays any more? I miss ya, old chum.’

‘Oh,’ Bill says, barely flinching as the eraser bounces off his ear, followed quickly by a pencil and a screwed up ball of paper. ‘C-cut it out, Rich. It’s just b-b-because I run Sundays now.’

Richie’s about to point out there are actually twelve hours in a day, but he zips it for once.

The real reason is probably the same reason everyone stops hanging around with Richie Tozier eventually. Exhaustion.

It’s cool; Richie can handle rejection. He just never thought _Bill_ would be the one to get tired of him.

*

The last Sunday of September, Bill sloshes past Richie’s house with one knee a scarlet mess, blood running in tangled rivers down his shin.

‘That’s the last fucking straw,’ Richie announces to Myrtle, and sprints to the door.

‘Denbrough,’ he yells. Bill’s already halfway down the street. He stops and stares back at him, looking like a tragic, half-drowned mouse.

‘Sharks,’ Richie screams.

‘Did you just say sh-sh-sh-sharks?’ Bill calls.

Richie takes a huge breath, and hollers: ‘You’re not – supposed – to swim – when you’re bleeding.’

‘I’m not sw–’ Bill begins. A car drives past and absolutely drenches him. Richie almost pisses himself laughing.

‘Like hell you’re not.’

Bill sighs and trudges back down the street and up to Richie’s gate, fingers curling over the wrought iron.

‘W-w-what do you w-want, Richie?’

Richie rubs his foot over the bristles of the welcome mat. ‘Me? _I_ don’t want anything. I couldn’t help but notice you’ve been mauled.’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘Okay,’ says Richie, ‘well, you’re getting nothing all over the hydrangeas.’

Bill winces and steps away from them.

‘We have a first aid kit,’ Richie says enticingly. ‘And oatmeal-and-raisin cookies. But it's okay, we have Nutella to cancel out the healthiness.’

Bill still hovers just beyond the street, and Richie, losing his patience, cries,

‘Motherfucking shitballs, Denbrough, what do I have to do to convince you to let me slap a bandage on that thing? A strip-tease? Just say the word.’ He starts unbuttoning his shirt.

And Bill says, ‘P-p-please, no, I’ll do anything,’ and finally unlatches Richie’s gate.

*

‘Okay,’ Richie says, sticking his tongue out and holding the iodine-soaked cotton pad above Bill’s messed-up knee. Beside him, on the bathroom tiles, is a bloody mountain of tissue paper. ‘This is gonna hurt, all right?’

‘D-do-don’t drag it out, Richie,’ says Bill, propped up on his elbow.

‘Okay, but, just brace yourself,’ says Richie, nervously, and starts dabbing at the wound. Bill hisses and jerks his leg away.

‘Sorry,’ he says, sticking his knee back out. He squeezes his eyes shut. ‘G-go again.’

‘Jesus,’ says Richie, feeling sick at the look on Bill’s face. He scratches ‘Doctor’ and ‘Nurse’ right off the future career list.

He dabs iodine on the wound again, and Bill presses his lips together but doesn’t make another sound. Richie carefully places a fresh pad over the wound and wraps the bandage several times around Bill’s leg.

‘Good as new,’ Richie announces, slapping Bill on the thigh, and Bill gives his ghostly half-smile.

‘Th-th-thanks.’

Bill stands up, frowns at the mess, and starts picking up all the tissues. Then he insists on finding bathroom spray so he can wipe the floor down. Richie helps. Kind of.

‘So,’ Richie says, still absently rubbing the same cloth over the same tile he was ‘cleaning’ fifteen minutes ago. ‘How you doing, Billy?’

‘F-f-fine.’

‘Uh huh,’ says Richie skeptically.

‘I _am_ f-f-f-fine,’ says Bill, moving the cloth over the tiles with huge, violent sweeps.

Richie sits up, hugs his knees. He wants to say, _How come you don’t come over here any more? Is it because I’m an annoying shit? Or is it something else? You can tell me._

‘Shit, I’m hungry as a homeless whore,’ he says instead, and gets up to get a cookie.

Bill doesn’t follow him, though, and Richie comes out of the kitchen to see Bill sitting by the front door, tying on his sneakers.

‘Oh,’ Richie says. ‘You don’t want a cookie?’

Bill’s concentrating hard on his laces. ‘That’s okay.’

‘I understand,’ Richie says solemnly. ‘They’re more of a trial than a cookie. Mom’s making macadamia and white chocolate next weekend, so you should come over then.’

Bill doesn’t answer. He stands up, lashes lowered.

Richie should leave it, but who is he if not the guy who pushes right through the limit of awkwardness and bursts through the other side into glorious anything-goes territory?

‘Billy. Let’s be real. I’m concerned about your blood sugar.’ Richie closes his hand around Bill’s wrist. ‘I know you favor the ‘stick figure’ look, and that’s cute n’all, but you can’t go around recklessly _jogging_ for hours without cookie breaks.’

‘P-p-p-pretty sure cookies aren’t at the bottom of the f-f-food pyramid.’

‘No, they’re at the top, where they put all the best food,’ says Richie. He does his Al Capone voice. ‘Say, kid, I worry boutcha, see?’

‘Well,’ says Bill, face contorting, ‘d-don’t.’

When Bill wrenches open the front door, a wet gust of wind smashes them both in the face. All the curtains downstairs flap wildly like they’re fighting for their lives. Bill squares his shoulders and heads on out. Even when he’s right down the end of the street, Richie can see the bright stripe of his bandage bouncing through the murky grey.

*

The weather remains gloomy all through the week, but come next Sunday, it’s a total mess. Both misty _and_ torrential. Richie mopes around his empty house playing The Furs on full volume and eating all the macadamia cookies.

So he doesn’t hear the knock on his door at first.

‘Billy?’ he says in surprise when he finally opens it. Cookie crumbs spill out of his mouth.

Bill silently drips onto the welcome mat, his eyes all big and haunted.

‘I,’ Richie admits guiltily. ‘Ate all the cookies.’

Bill shakes his head and makes like he’s turning to go, then spins back around, doing his almost-smile. Richie gives an inward sigh of relief.

‘Come in, come in, my dear fellow,’ Richie says in his Queen voice. ‘And I daresay I shall savor destroying your ass in Ikari Warriors.’

Bill peels off his socks and drapes them carefully, like dead slugs, over his shoes. He's shivering, which is no surprise given the weather, but it makes Richie want to hurry him inside. Bill hesitates, though, looking at the puddle he’s left on the floor.  

‘C-c-could I borrow a towel? If it’s n-not too much trouble.’

‘’Course,’ says Richie, and looks at the goosebumps on Bill’s arms. ‘You look like a drowned rat, though, Bill. Vy not hop in ze show-ver vile you are at it?’

When the hell, Richie thinks, did my main goal in life become convincing Bill Denbrough to look after himself? Before last summer, Richie didn’t give two shits about whether people went around damaging their own health by jogging for hours in the rain and not eating enough and spending too much time with their shitty-ass parents.

Bill surprises Richie by nodding hesitantly. Richie is on a roll today. It must be the accents.

He runs up to his room, grabs a fresh towel and a clean set of clothes. Turns the shower on and adjusts the temperature. Then meets Bill in the hall and hurls everything straight at his head. The towel falls over him so he looks like a fluffy ghost.

Ten minutes later, Bill shows up downstairs with Richie’s hoodie sleeves hanging over his hands and his trackpants puddling around his ankles. Mom always complains about Richie’s never-ending growth spurt, but he’s never really noticed how much taller than Bill he's grown.

‘ _Ciao, mon amigo_ ,’ Richie says, tossing him a controller.

Myrtle immediately leaps from Richie’s lap to Bill’s. ‘Traitor,’ Richie tells her.

Bill’s not on top gaming form, like, at all. Richie KOs him for the sixth time in a row. He’s about to press Restart when Bill says,

‘M-mom won’t talk to me.’

‘Huh?’ says Richie. ‘How do you mean?’

Bill’s eyes are lowered. He rubs his fingers over Myrtle’s ears; she looks over at Richie smugly, like,  _You jealous, bitch?_

‘It’s like she’s really... mad at me, only it’s b-b-been going on for m-months.’

Richie has seen the pent-up anger in Mr Denbrough when he talks to his son. He guesses it's infected Mrs Denbrough, too. Can't they fucking see how much Bill needs them?

‘Does she talk to you at dinner?'

When Richie was little he, used to love being invited for dinners at the Denbroughs’, because Mrs Denbrough _always_ made dessert. And sometimes Mr Denbrough would give them spontaneous general knowledge quizzes as they ate, including ‘Junior’ questions for Georgie. Bill always rolled his eyes at those quizzes, but – Richie knows he’s a nerd, but he loved that shit.

‘We d-d-don’t really do dinner-time any more,’ Bill says.

The hell does that mean?

‘They’re not, like, starving you, are they?’ Richie says.

‘No, of course not,’ says Bill, shrugging like it's nothing. ‘There’s always s-s-something in the pantry.’

Richie remembers the atmosphere whenever he drops by the Denbroughs. This constant, suffocating, hazy indifference. Bill's parents always seem to be turning their heads away from Bill. And Richie thinks of Bill sitting alone at his dinner table, staring at three empty chairs, and eating a goddamn bag of potato chips.

‘Fuck, Bill.’

And then Bill’s crying. Richie, in all his years of friendship with Bill Denbrough, has only seen him cry once before, and that was in a sewer after nearly being murdered by a clown.

Bill cries inwards; that’s the best way Richie can describe it, like he’s collapsing in on himself, swallowing up his sobs and trying to pull the tears back off his cheeks.

It pretty much tugs the hug right out of Richie. Before he knows it he’s got his arms around Bill, making Myrtle jump hissing off his lap.

He’s too thin. It almost hurts to hug him.

Richie can’t think what to say. He’s run out of words.

Bill cries into Richie’s shoulder for a while, then he says, ‘Sorry, sorry,’ and stands up.

He wipes his nose on his sleeve and then realises he's wearing Richie's hoodie.

‘It’s okay,’ says Richie gently, but Bill says,

‘I sh-should go. I’ll g-give you the clothes back at school.’

‘Keep ‘em, I don’t need ‘em.’

Bill nods and practically sprints for the door. Richie bites his lip.

He needs to think of a plan.

*

The next week, even though it’s October, the sun comes back like it’s got a death grudge against Derry, drying out worms and snails and cooking the already decimated lawns to brown crisps.

Come Tuesday afternoon, Richie reads comics on his porch ‘til Bill runs past.

‘Hey,’ he shouts. ‘Willy Coyote.’

Bill stops, squints up at him through the sun. What an idiot, Richie thinks, with his auburn hair flopping over one eyebrow and his face too-pale from sunscreen and his crinkled nose. What an unbearably cute fucking idiot.

‘Mom made cookies early this week,’ Richie calls, waving one at him. No one else’s mom makes mint chocolate-chip cookies, but even if they did, these would still be the best in Derry.

Bill rubs his arm. Then he almost-smiles, and jogs over to the gate. Richie’s parents are out, so Richie invites Bill to stay for pasta.

‘You d-d-don’t know how to cook, Trashmouth.’

‘But you do,’ Richie says. ‘Don’t think I don’t remember that lasagne you made. I had wet dreams about that lasagne.’

Bill looks nauseated.

‘I could use a lesson,’ Richie says, ‘now that Mom’s working night shifts.’

‘You l-l-lure me in with cookies and then d-d-demand free labour,’ says Bill, but his eyes are kind of crinkling.

They assemble all the ingredients for pasta pomodoro. Richie demands that he do the cooking stuff himself.

‘Okay. The first rule with pasta is, salt and olive oil in the pan when you b-boil it.’

Richie has a good go of it, but –

‘How the hell was I supposed to know you need  _water_ to boil shit,’ Richie says, flapping a towel to dispel the smoke as Bill opens all the windows and doors. After that Bill demotes him to grating cheese.

Unfortunately Richie nicks his finger and bleeds everywhere, ruining all his own hard work.

Bill gets him a plaster with little blue ghosts on it, and carefully cleans Richie’s finger with a paper towel before putting it over the cut.

‘Kiss it better?’ Richie suggests. Bill shakes his head.

‘Who knows where you’ve been, Trashmouth.’

‘I have impeccable hygiene, William,’ says Richie, waggling his finger. ‘Impeccable.’

That’s when the plaster falls off, and Richie starts bleeding all over the floor again. Bill tries to stop it and gets blood all over himself too. Gross. Richie must’ve cut a damn artery or something.

‘Jesus,’ says Bill, breathlessly, when it’s finally staunched. There are three plasters cutting off the circulation to the tip of Richie’s index finger. ‘Okay, those should st-st-stay.'

Richie doesn’t answer. He’s staring at the blood on Bill’s hands and t-shirt and on the floor and feeling all – cold and separated.

Swears he can hear that fucked-up laugh.

‘Rich?’ says Bill, grasping his hand instinctively.

Richie stares at Bill’s fingers on his and Bill jerks his hand away.

‘S-sorry.’ He's blushing.

Richie reaches out to grab Bill’s hand again before he can slide it into his pocket.

‘You ever,’ he asks breathlessly, ‘wonder if the fucker’s still around?’

Bill laughs humorlessly.

‘Every day.’

Bill squeezes Richie’s hand again, then pulls Richie into a hug. Richie rests his head on his shoulder.

The pasta’s good, but neither of them has much of an appetite. They sit side-by-side on the couch watching cartoons. Richie notices they’re sitting slightly closer than usual. He grins a little at Myrtle.

Later in the evening, astoundingly, Richie manages to convince Bill to try some of his mom’s red wine.

‘Just a little,’ says Bill, chewing on a triple-choc cookie. Richie splatters wine all over the bench, and fills Bill’s glass all the way up to the brim.

‘Enjoy our finest pee-knot noy-r,’ Richie reads, and steps close to Bill to clink glasses before taking a gulp.

‘Urgh,’ Bill says, swallowing and grimacing. ‘How d-do adults stand that?’

‘Tastebuds numbed from all the ciggies and general old-ness,’ says Richie wisely.

Yeah, it’s fucking disgusting, but Richie’s intent on finding out what getting drunk with Bill Denbrough feels like.

‘C’mon, Denbrough, I thought you were the bad-ass here.'

Bill quirks his lip reluctantly and takes another sip.

His lips are stained slightly pink. Richie stares.

‘Rich?’ says Bill doubtfully.

Richie lurches forwards. Shit. Shit. He does not have a fucking clue how to do this. He keeps his mouth tightly closed and hopes for the best. His glasses bump against Bill's nose.

'Fuck,' he mutters, but then Bill gently turns his head and finds Richie's mouth.

He tastes like wine and dark chocolate. 

The kiss lasts maybe a couple seconds, and then they're bumping noses and breathing one another's air.

It's the best two seconds of Richie’s life so far, though. Way, way better than the time he saw Stan’s sister’s bikini top fall off.

Bill reaches for his hand and smiles properly for the first time Richie can remember in a while.

*

Sunday rolls around. After the bone-dry week, the rain returns like an old friend. It trumpets over Richie’s roof and blurs his view of the street from the windows.

He moves his chair a little closer to the window, so he can see better. He can just make out the shiny little circles on the pavement. He hopes none of them will get washed away.

But Bill doesn’t show up all morning. Richie is not good at waiting at all. He drinks, like, six glasses of orange juice and an instant coffee. He subsequently has to go to the bathroom four times. On his fourth trip he hears the doorbell ring.

‘Hey,’ he says as he answers the door. ‘Nice jacket.’

‘Th-thanks,’ says Bill, who is wearing a slightly-too big orange raincoat, and clutching a small pile of cookies in zip-loc bags. ‘I sc-scored it off this guy, you might know him. Big glasses, talks w-w-way too much?’

‘Oh, yeah, I know the guy. Super hot, right?’ says Richie. Bill twists his mouth, but goes a little red. ‘And I hear he has a _massive_ –’

‘How l-long did this shit take you?’ Bill interrupts, waving the cookies.

‘Not that long,’ Richie says indifferently, which is a lie. Richie spent about an hour bagging the cookies and leaving a trail of them from Bill’s front door all the way to his own gate. ‘You fell right into my trap, Denbrough. Know if you were in the Hansel and Gretel universe, you’d be in a witch’s oven right now?’

‘It was the k-ki-kids who left the trail of breadcrumbs, Rich, not the w-witch.'

'Oh,' says Richie. 'Well. Still lured you in with baking.'

'At least I don’t use messed up f-f-fairy-tales for flirting inspiration.’

Bill dumps all of the cookies on the kitchen table, and they stand there, awkwardly, in the kitchen, which suddenly feels far too small. Richie’s heart is beating like crazy.

He doesn’t know the _protocol_ when you’ve kissed someone. When’s too soon to kiss Bill again? When’s too _late?_ Is it already too late? Should he have grabbed him and kissed him passionately when he opened his front door?

 _Oh no, don’t imagine_ _that_ –

‘I wasn’t,’ Richie babbles, ‘actually trying to re-enact and Hansel and Gretel. You know that, right? I don’t envision us having, like, a murderous-witch-and-lost-child relationship. If we're drawing inspiration from fairy-tales, I was hoping for more of a, you know, Beauty and the Beast type situation.’

Why did he choose _that_ couple? He is _so_ bad at this.

Bill wrinkles his nose, but his lip’s twitching. ‘I’m scared to ask wh-which one I am.’

Well, Richie knows the answer to that, but he doesn't know how it will go down if the Trashmouth confesses that he's always thought Bill Denbrough was beautiful.

Bill steps right into Richie’s bubble, and takes Richie's glasses off.  Richie notices Bill's hands are shaking very faintly.

Cute.

This time it's even more awkward, because they both open their mouths a little too far and they aren’t totally co-ordinated yet and Richie gets maybe a little too enthusiastic and then Bill pulls away to giggle – ‘Sorry, I–’ and then they’re both laughing, their bodies still close, their hands still resting on one another’s arms and waists.

Richie wonders if he’ll remember this moment forever, blushing and giggling helplessly with Bill in his kitchen filled with shifting grey light and the hammer of falling rain, surrounded by his dumb rainproofed cookies.

‘Ok, l-l-let’s try again,’ Bill says softly, and leans in.

This time they get it. This time, Richie feels how a sparkler must feel when someone lights it up. Bill’s hand comes up to trail over Richie’s neck. HIs fingers are very soft, nails scratching very lightly over Richie’s skin. Sometimes they stop for a second to catch their breath and then one of them leans in and starts it all over again.

‘Fu-uck,’ says Richie when they finally break apart. ‘Can I ask you something? Why are you kissing me of all people?’

Bill shrugs. ‘Shuts you up, I guess.’


End file.
